I wrote this over a decade ago as part of a board challenge. It was very out of my comfort zone - my first ever attempt to write Dark Luke, my first attempt at writing in second person, and there ain't a happy ending in sight. But it's still one of the pieces I'm proudest of.
The cantina is crowded but you sit in a darkened booth, nursing your drink in solitude. You no longer worry about being recognized; you never are. And there are ways to make people forget.
A vidscreen in the corner of the room catches your eye; even this far out in the Rim they’re showing the victory celebrations. The Rebels have overtaken Coruscant and a New Republic is being formed. Your old friends are there, along with your sister. They mourn your death and proclaim you a martyr.
You know better. You were no martyr when you surrendered to the dark side, when you sliced through Vader’s throat and Palpatine burned at your feet.
They say Luke Skywalker died on the Death Star. They are right.
A woman appears from nowhere, soft and light on her feet. “Can I sit?” Her voice is bland but the hint of a courtly upbringing remains. Her flame red hair, dirty as it may be, is unmistakable as ever.
You blink, looking back down at the table. “I don’t care.”
She shrugs. “Neither do I.” But she sits anyway.
You aren't surprised that she has found you. She always does. You’ve considered killing her, to rid yourself of the nuisance, but she has never betrayed your identity and poses no threat. And, at times, she has provided a momentary distraction.
Besides, you no longer care enough to expend the effort.
She sighs and her gaze softens a bit, as if she knows what you are thinking. She probably does. “I’m supposed to kill you.”
Her declaration doesn’t faze you; it never has. “Go right ahead.” You remove your blaster and shove it towards her across the table. “It would be an improvement.”
Her green eyes rake over you and you know what she is seeing—ratted hair long in need of a cut, scraggly beard, sallow complexion, mismatched clothes that could have been thrown on in the dark. Eyes that were once so bright with hope dulled to the color of an ocean in the dead of night.
“Yes,” she says, nodding slowly, sliding the blaster back across the table. “I can see that it would.” It is not a judgment, merely an observation laced with empathy. “So why not just kill yourself?”
The blaster sits on the table, taunting you, but you put it away. “You would know the answer to that.”
She nods. “You're right. I do.” She picks up her glass, lifts it to yours. “What are we drinking to tonight?”
You stare at your own glass, remembering. “To dead Sith Lords.”
She chuckles. It is a hollow sound. “I’ll drink to that.”
You swallow your drink in one gulp, ignoring the burn as the liquid trickles down your throat. You can hardly feel the sensation anymore.
Abruptly you stand, deciding it is time to leave. She follows you out of the cantina and you let her, too numb to argue. But she leaves you alone once you arrive at your room for the night. You know that, had you asked, she would have offered herself to you. But it would have been callous and cold and, much like the alcohol that once burned your throat, pointless.
At one time she might’ve lit a fire inside your soul, but the flame had long ago burned out. All that was left were ashes.
So instead you fall asleep alone, praying that she’ll return in the dead of night and make good on her promise to kill you.
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